FEARS FOR OTHERS.
THE joyous feelings of the boys were damped by their first sight of their uncle's face. It was kind as ever, but so grave, so pale, they felt at once that something serious must have happened.
"Do not leave the carriage, my dear boys," said Mr. Presgrave. "I cannot suffer you at present to enter the house."
"Mamma! Where is she? What is the matter?" exclaimed Tom and Willy, with a vague sense of fear.
"She is well, my children, quite well, thank God! The anxiety and sorrow are mine. Your poor aunt is now lying in a critical state—" his lips quivered as he spoke—"from an attack of malignant fever; and as the doctor cannot yet positively declare that the malady is not infectious in its nature, we have thankfully accepted the offer of Sir Hugh Moncton to receive you for a few days till the issue is known."
The poor boys looked at each other with mingled surprise and sorrow. Willy asked if he might not see his mother, but this was not thought advisable. After sending many a message of love, the boys were driven slowly away.
"How little we know what a day may bring forth!" sighed Willy, after some moments of silence. "We were so happy, and all seemed so bright!"
"Oh! I hope that aunt soon will recover," said Tom, "and then all will be right again. If it were not the cause of our going, I should rather like to visit at Sir Hugh's; they say he has the finest place in the county, with dogs and horses, and everything grand, and Ned Moncton's a splendid young fellow!"
With a faltering step and a heavy heart Mr. Presgrave re-entered the house. Seldom through the course of a long life had clouds gathered so darkly around him! Mrs. Gore had never hitherto permitted her children to visit her neighbour, and now only a sudden and pressing emergency induced her to expose her young sons to the dangerous society of Anderdon Hall. Perhaps anxiety on their account weighed upon Mr. Presgrave as heavily as upon their mother. The feebleness and infirmities of age rendered him less able to struggle against care, whilst the heaviest, to him, of all earthly afflictions, the loss of the wife whom he deeply loved, seemed hanging over his head like a thundercloud ready to burst. Much need had the aged man of the sustaining power of his faith—again and again, he repeated to himself as he feebly and slowly mounted the stairs, "'Why art thou cast down, O my soul? And why art thou disquieted within me? Hope thou in God: for I shall yet praise Him, who is the health of my countenance, and my God.'"
With noiseless step, he reached the sick-room—with trembling hand, he unclosed the door, and listened for a moment ere he ventured to enter. After the clear sunshine which he had left, how dark and gloomy appeared that chamber! Drawn curtains shut out the cheerful day, the air felt heavy and oppressive, cooling drinks and lotions lay on a table by the bedside, no sound was heard but the ticking of a watch, which seemed numbering the few moments of departing life.